


Happy Birthday

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was odd, Athos thought, how birthdays seemed to be more troublesome since the boy had arrived, and he thought back to several months before when his own birthday plans had been interrupted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> After finishing off my last story earlier this week, a few folks indicated they had birthdays coming up. I thought this would be a nice way to say thanks to all of the wonderful readers and writers in this fandom, so to anyone who's recently celebrated or has a birthday coming up, I hope you enjoy this one-shot. Happy Birthday!

Athos

The boy would be alright; that’s what the surgeon believed although until he awoke, no one could be certain of anything. The three friends had been away for two days, having been sent on a short overnight mission without the young man who was still nursing cracked ribs from a recent, unfortunate fall from his horse. Upon their return the men were to have had two days’ leave after which d’Artagnan would have been fit enough to resume his normal duties and the three would no longer have to worry about leaving their fourth member behind. But the news they had received upon their return had been nothing short of heart-wrenching and had sent the men running, taking the stairs two at a time as they thundered toward the infirmary where their youngest lay ensconced in bed, his normal olive complexion significantly faded from blood loss. He’d been on a simple errand to deliver a message to the Cardinal, an easy ride that was Treville’s way of combating the boredom from which the boy had been suffering. It was sheer coincidence that the young man happened to be in the right place at the right time to come to the aid of a young woman who was being attacked by two men in an alley, and extremely bad luck that one of them had managed to nick the artery in the boy’s arm with a dagger strike before they fled.

 

Now Athos sat at the boy’s bedside, praying for the young man to wake, proving that he once again had the tenacity to overcome his latest injury and would live to see another day. A sob caught in Athos’ throat as he cursed fate for being so unfair; their two days’ leave coincided with the young man’s birthday and now, instead of celebrating, the three friends kept watch, hoping that the boy’s last birthday hadn’t been his last. It was odd, Athos thought, how birthdays seemed to be more troublesome since the boy had arrived, and he thought back to several months before when his own birthday plans had been interrupted.

 

_They had been on the road back from Orleans having escorted a minor noble who’d travelled to court to complain of bandits and was now too afraid to return home without protection. The King had magnanimously agreed and tasked Treville with selecting from those among his guard to escort the man. This type of mission was not unusual for the four and the journey between Orleans and Paris was a relatively pleasant one, allowing them to spend several days together while still returning to Paris in time to celebrate Athos’ birthday. Normally birthdays were boisterous occasions that involved the entire garrison, but Athos was still weary over the events with Milady and wanted only to enjoy a fine meal in the company of his closest friends. As such, he’d made plans for dinner at one of the better taverns and had invited his three brothers as well as the Captain to join him. Although it was a quieter way of celebrating, all of them were looking forward to the evening, feeling honored at having been included and relieved that Athos had not chosen to drink his way through another birthday alone._

_They were close to Paris when the bandits attacked and even though they outnumbered the Musketeers, the superior skill of the soldiers quickly turned the tide in their favor. It was as Athos pulled his sword from his latest fallen combatant, looking around to identify a new one, that he was tackled from the side. The move had him striking the hard ground, stunning him for an instant, before his senses registered the shot that he’d heard almost simultaneously with the impact that felled him. Struggling under the weight that still pinned him, he finally managed to push it off and realized that it had been the Gascon who’d lain panting across his chest. “d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, as he sat up to have a proper look at the boy. The sound of running had him looking up quickly to see his friends moving toward him, which he interpreted as meaning that the bandits had been despatched and they were now safe._

_Returning his gaze to the young man, he was relieved to see two brown eyes staring up at him, glazed with pain but aware enough regardless. “d’Artagnan,” he breathed out, “are you alright?” The young man flapped an arm weakly at his side and Athos’ eyes followed the movement to see blood staining the tan of the boy’s doublet. Leaning over, he unlaced it and pushed it aside to see red staining the white shirt underneath and he sighed as he moved back onto his haunches. Porthos and Aramis slid to a halt beside them and Athos pointed to the young man’s side, the medic moving to action immediately. As Aramis pushed down on the wound and Porthos gathered supplies from their saddlebags, Athos looked pointedly at the boy. “You got shot pushing me out of the way.” Although he was in pain, d’Artagnan grinned cockily at him. “Why did you do that?”_

_The Gascon grimaced for a moment at the pressure on his side before grinning even more widely, “Couldn’t let you get shot on your birthday.”_

_Aramis snorted as Athos rolled his eyes, suggesting, “Perhaps next time, you could avoid getting shot on my birthday as well?”_

_d’Artagnan grinned cheekily as his mentor placed a hand on his shoulder and he met Athos’ eyes as he said, “Happy Birthday, Athos.”_

* * *

Aramis

He’d finally been able to convince Athos to leave for a while, to rest, eat, whatever; at this point Aramis didn’t care, as long as the man left for a bit. He knew that Athos was especially protective of the boy, but in truth, they shared those feelings, all of them having adopted d’Artagnan and treating him as they would a younger brother. Of course, they had been looking forward to celebrating the young man’s birthday and sitting watch over him while he recovered from injury had not been part of their plans. Thinking back, Aramis realized that it had been a while since their birthday plans had gone off as expected, his own birthday having taken an odd turn as well.

 

_Aramis was across the courtyard from them, surrounded by a group of Musketeers who had challenged the medic to a knife-throwing contest. Given the amount of alcohol that had been consumed, it was a wonder that no one had lost a finger or worse and, incredibly, Aramis was actually winning. His three friends sat at their usual table, nursing their own drinks and watching as their fourth demonstrated his skill, despite being incredibly inebriated. d’Artagnan shook his head as he watched Aramis place his dagger in the centre of the target once again. “How does he do that?” he asked in awe._

_Athos shrugged while Porthos grinned with pride. “He’s got a natural talent for it, almost as good as he is with a musket. I sometimes think he’s actually more accurate after he’s had a few drinks,” Porthos chuckled._

_“True, and he’s used it to his advantage many a time to lighten a few unsuspecting men’s purses,” Athos agreed._

_“However he does it, it’s pretty incredible to watch,” d’Artagnan stated, another of the sharpshooter’s knives hitting its mark._

_When the contest was finished, Aramis having been declared the winner, he stumbled back to the table where his friends waited. As he tried to sit, nearly missing the bench itself, Porthos steadied him and exchanged looks with Athos. “Alright, Aramis, that’s enough celebratin’ for tonight. Treville’s given us permission to miss mornin’ muster but you still need to be standin’ by noon.” Dragging the man upright, Porthos was surprised at how pliable his friend was and he motioned to d’Artagnan to take Aramis’ other side, having a hard time keeping him upright on his own. The two friends each ducked under an arm and moved toward the stairs that led to Aramis’ room._

_d’Artagnan looked across their inebriated friend to Porthos, “He’s going to be regretting this tomorrow.”_

_“Aye,” Porthos agreed, grinning._

_As they reached the bottom of the stairs, d’Artagnan moved slightly back, “You go up first and I’ll follow; there’s no way we’ll fit otherwise.”_

_With a nod, Porthos led the way, the two still supporting their friend between them as they moved upwards slightly sideways. As Aramis lifted his leg to take another step, he stumbled, falling heavily into the young man behind him. Porthos managed to hold onto Aramis and prevent him from falling, but the momentary shift in the sharpshooter’s weight was enough to dislodge d’Artagnan from his position, sending him tumbling down the stairs before landing at the bottom._

_“d’Artagnan,” Porthos cried from his spot on the stairs, unable to move quickly because he still held Aramis. Athos heard the large man’s cry and was in motion immediately, landing on his knees beside the Gascon who lay spread-eagled on his back at the foot of the stairs._

_“d’Artagnan,” Athos placed a hand on the young man’s cheek, relieved that his eyes were open, “are you hurt?” The young man blinked slowly, gazing upwards at the night sky, unware that Porthos and Aramis had descended and were now on his other side._

_“Put me down,” Aramis slurred to Porthos, intending to examine their young friend. Porthos rolled his eyes but did as he’d been asked, knowing that there would be no reasoning with the man while he was drunk._

_Aramis leaned over the Gascon, Porthos steadying him with a hand on one arm, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”_

_d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted slowly to his friend’s face, attempting to focus, a lazy grin appearing as he realized who had spoken. “Aramis, there’s two of you.” Athos and Porthos exchanged concerned looks as the medic moved a hand to the Gascon’s head. As he located a bump, causing the young man to wince in pain, d’Artagnan spoke again, “Happy Birthday, Aramis.”_

* * *

Porthos

Porthos was glad that it was his turn to sit with their friend although, like the other two men, he would have given anything for the young man to be hale and hearty rather than being in his current state. Aramis seemed to think that the boy was improving, suggesting that his color was better, but to Porthos the Gascon still seemed incredibly pale and cool to the touch, both of which were apparently expected side-effects of the blood he’d lost. The next day marked the young man’s birthday and they were all hoping that the boy would wake before it arrived, signalling to them all that he would be alright. Sighing, Porthos leaned back in his chair, contemplating how different their lives were with the addition of their fourth; not just different, he mused, but unusual, even their birthdays taking on an interesting twist they hadn’t experienced in the past.

 

_The evening had begun with plentiful food and drinks provided by Serge, and Porthos had revelled in the well-wishes of his brothers, finding that his birthdays now were a far cry from the scarcity and fear that marked his years growing up in the Court of Miracles. Really, he had never even celebrated before Flea and Charon had convinced him to and, even then, it had just been the three of them. When things had begun to wind down at the garrison, Porthos found he was still too keyed up to sleep and he headed into the city to find a card game, his three friends tagging along behind him to keep him safe._

_He’d found a game with little difficulty and while he played, his brothers had found a table nearby, sharing a bottle of wine between them, intent on remaining sober enough to intervene should trouble arise. Porthos was usually an accomplished cheat, but the wine had made him sloppy and his last attempt at switching cards had a large man growling in anger. Quickly he stood, leaning over the table, catching Porthos’ wrist in an iron grip as he exposed the cards hiding in Porthos’ sleeve. The Musketeer wasted no time in wrenching his arm from the other man’s grasp, standing as well and preparing to defend himself as the other men at the table rose angrily._

_Porthos had thrown a couple of well-aimed punches by the time that the other Musketeers had made their way to his side, immediately engaging with attackers of their own. Aramis was soon matching with blades with one of the men, thrusting and blocking between tables, the patrons around them scurrying out of their way lest they be accidently struck by an errant sword strike. Athos was similarly engaged with two others several feet away, protecting Porthos’ back from an attack from behind. Somehow, d’Artagnan had ended up with the hulking man who had discovered Porthos’ cheating, the man easily standing a full head above his own, with shoulders as broad as a bull’s. Using his natural speed, the Gascon had so far managed to dodge the man’s punches and land a couple of his own, but with the scattered tables and chairs around them, he knew his luck couldn’t last. He’d already been disarmed, the large man literally reaching forward to rip his weapon’s belt from his hips, flinging it across the tavern and out of his reach._

_As the two men circled each other, d’Artagnan threw a quick glance in the direction of his friends, confirming that they were all still busy and unable to come to his assistance. As he scooted sideways to maintain his distance from his attacker, the Gascon snagged an empty wine bottle from the table and darted forward to smash it against the side of the man’s head. Despite the fact that the man’s face was now covered in small cuts, he’d simply shook off the Musketeer’s blow and still advanced. Stepping back quickly to avoid the man’s beefy hands, the Gascon tripped over a fallen chair and in that instant knew he was in trouble. His attacker wasted no time in grabbing him by his collar, smashing a fist into his face that left d’Artagnan’s gaze wavering with the force of the blow. His neck snapped back painfully as the brute lifted him to his feet, changing his grip to lift the Gascon above his head and spinning him around._

_By now the three men were finishing with their opponents and had turned to see the young man’s plight. In unison they moved to stop the man, Athos intending to place his sword at the man’s neck to encourage him to release their young friend. Moments before they could intervene, the hulking man released his victim, sending d’Artagnan flying several feet to land heavily on the edge of a table before sliding bonelessly to the floor. Aramis changed direction immediately, heading to check on the Gascon, while Athos finished his move and pressed his blade to the large man’s throat, hoping the man might resist so he could finish him for daring to hurt their youngest._

_“Aramis?” Athos asked, as he kept his eyes on the brute in front of him, Porthos moving to join the medic._

_“A moment please, Athos,” Aramis replied, confirming the presence of a pulse at the young man’s neck and that his chest still rose and fell. “Alive, but unconscious.”_

_Athos gave a short nod, removing his sword, “I suggest you leave and hope to never cross paths with us again.” The large man moved quickly to obey, disappearing through the tavern doors before Athos had a chance to join his friends at d’Artagnan’s side._

_“What’s the damage?” Porthos asked, leaning heavily against a wooden post, the drinking and fighting having taken its toll on the man._

_Aramis’ deft fingers moved from the boy’s head and neck to his arms and legs, ending to probe at the boy’s chest and frowning at the give on his right side. Sighing, he leaned back on his haunches, looking up at his friends who stood on d’Artagnan’s other side, “Two broken ribs on his right side and I’d guess he’s hit his head, which is why he’s still out.”_

_Porthos motioned with his head toward the Gascon, “He’s awake.” They all turned their attention back to the man on the floor who blinked up at them muzzily._

_“What happened?” the young man asked, frowning at the pain in his head and side._

_“We won,” Athos stated dryly, moving forward to help Aramis raise the boy to his feet. As the Gascon swayed between the two, his gaze landed on Porthos and a lopsided grin appeared on his face._

_“Porthos,” he slurred, “I remember now. Happy Birthday.”_

* * *

d’Artagnan

His body felt heavy and lethargic, limbs seemingly melded into the softness below him and unwilling to obey even the simplest commands. The feeling extended to his head, which seemed stuffed with cotton, preventing him from remembering what had happened or identifying where he was now. Thirsty, he thought to himself, even as he realized that he’d never be able to move enough to get a cup of water and he sighed sadly at the realization. “d’Artagnan?” a voice asked, but the Gascon couldn’t place it and, even if he had, he was far too weary to either open his eyes or respond.

 

The sound of humming reached his ears and his brow furrowed slightly as his fuzzy mind tried to comprehend where he’d heard it before. Apparently his frown had not gone unnoticed and another voice addressed him, “d’Artagnan, are you awake?” Still too hard the Gascon thought and he allowed his thoughts to wander again. The smell of gunpowder and leather tickled at his nose, scents which seemed familiar and tugged at his brain, but he was unable to place them.

 

His body seemed enveloped by fog and he resigned himself to not being able to find the answers he was searching for, sighing again as he tried to drift off to sleep. But sleep was not to be had as he realized he felt cold, a shiver racking his frame and awakening an ache in his arm. The feeling pulled a moan from his throat, and this time the voice was more insistent, accompanied by a warm hand on his cheek that he tried to lean into. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes.”

 

“Mmm,” the Gascon hummed, but kept his eyes closed.

 

“Come on lad, you’ve worried us for long enough. It’s time for you to wake up so we know you’re alright,” another voice coaxed.

 

The Gascon’s brow furrowed again at the concern lacing those words and this time he made an effort to open his eyes, struggling to lift lids that seemed to have weights attached to them. When he managed the challenge, he blinked lazily, focusing on three faces above him. Aramis brought a cup to his lips, lifting his head so he drink without choking, and the water that slid down his throat tasted sweeter than any wine he’d ever had. Too soon the cup was pulled away and he groaned at its loss.

 

“Don’t worry, you can have more, but we have to take it slowly,” Aramis assured him as he replaced his head on the pillow.

 

A hand on his head got his attention, and d’Artagnan shifted his gaze to Athos who was pushing the bangs from his face. “It’s good to see you back with us. You had us worried.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face scrunched in confusion and Porthos placed a hand on his arm, explaining, “You were stabbed in the arm when you stopped to help a young lady. You drove away her attackers but lost a lot of blood.” He trailed off, unsure of how much more to say.

 

“We were uncertain whether you would be able to recover, and given the timing…” Aramis paused, looking to Athos for help.

 

“What we’re trying to say is that our birthdays have been far more eventful since you arrived, and we’d really appreciate being able to celebrate one without you getting hurt,” Athos explained, a smile tugging at his lips.

 

d’Artagnan shifted his gaze from one friend to the next, a small grin playing on his face as he breathed out a question, “Did I miss it?”

 

Athos shook his head, smiling, “No, you didn’t miss it.”

 

The boy’s grin widened as his three brothers spoke in unison, “Happy Birthday, d’Artagnan.”


End file.
